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And all those hard laborious trades

       Where willing wretches daily sweat

       And wear out strength and limbs, to eat;

       While others followed mysteries

       To which few folks, bind prentices,

       That want no stock but that of brass,

       And may set up without a cross—

       As sharpers, parasites, pimps, players,

       Pickpockets, coiners, quacks, soothsayers,

       And all those that in enmity

       With downright working, cunningly

       Convert to their own use the labour

       Of their good-natured heedless neighbour.

       These were called knaves; but bar the name,

       The grave industrious were the same:

       All trades and places knew some cheat,

       No calling was without deceit.

      * * * * *

      Thus every part was full of vice,

       Yet the whole mass a paradise:

       Flattered in peace, and feared in wars,

       They were th' esteem of foreigners,

       And lavish of their wealth and lives,

       The balance of all other hives.

       Such were the blessings of that state;

       Their crimes conspired to make them great.

      * * * * *

      The root of evil, avarice,

       That damned, ill-natured, baneful vice,

       Was slave to prodigality,

       That noble sin; whilst luxury

       Employed a million of the poor,

       And odious pride a million more;

       Envy itself, and vanity,

       Were ministers of industry;

       Their darling folly—fickleness

       In diet, furniture, and dress—

       That strange, ridiculous vice, was made

       The very wheel that turned the trade.

       Their laws and clothes were equally

       Objects of mutability;

       For what was well done for a time,

       In half a year became a crime.

      * * * * *

      How vain, is mortal happiness!

       Had they but known the bounds of bliss,

       And that perfection here below

       Is more than gods can well bestow,

       The grumbling brutes had been content

       With ministers and government.

       But they, at every ill success,

       Like creatures lost without redress,

       Cursed politicians, armies, fleets;

       While every one cried, 'Damn the cheats!'

       And would, though conscious of his own,

       In others barbarously bear none.

       One that had got a princely store

       By cheating master, king, and poor,

       Dared cry aloud, 'The land must sink

       For all its fraud'; and whom d'ye think

       The sermonizing rascal chid?

       A glover that sold lamb for kid!

       The least thing was not done amiss,

       Or crossed the public business,

       But all the rogues cried brazenly,

       'Good Gods, had we but honesty!'

       Mercury smiled at th' impudence,

       And others called it want of sense,

       Always to rail at what they loved:

       But Jove, with indignation moved,

       At last in anger swore he'd rid

       The bawling hive of fraud; and did.

       The very moment it departs,

       And honesty fills all their hearts,

       There shews 'em, like th' instructive tree,

       Those crimes which they're ashamed to see,

       Which now in silence they confess

       By blushing at their ugliness;

       Like children that would hide their faults

       And by their colour own their thoughts,

       Imagining when they're looked upon,

       That others see what they have done.

       But, O ye Gods! what consternation!

       How vast and sudden was th' alternation!

       In half an hour, the nation round,

       Meat fell a penny in the pound.

      * * * * *

      Now mind the glorious hive, and see

       How honesty and trade agree.

       The show is gone; it thins apace,

       And looks with quite another face.

       For 'twas not only that they went

       By whom vast sums were yearly spent;

       But multitudes that lived on them,

       Were daily forced to do the same.

       In vain to other trades they'd fly;

       All were o'erstocked accordingly.

      * * * * *

      As pride and luxury decrease,

       So by degrees they leave the seas.

       Not merchants now, but companies,

       Remove whole manufactories.

       All arts and crafts neglected lie:

       Content, the bane of industry,

       Makes 'em admire their homely store,

       And neither seek nor covet more.

       So few in the vast hive remain,

       The hundredth part they can't maintain

       Against th' insults of numerous foes,

       Whom yet they valiantly oppose,

       Till some well-fenced retreat is found,

       And here they die or stand their ground.

       No hireling in their army's known;

       But bravely fighting for their own

       Their courage and integrity

       At last were crowned with victory.

       They triumphed not without their cost,

       For many thousand bees were lost.

       Hardened with toil and exercise,

       They counted ease itself a vice;

       Which so improved their temperance

       That, to avoid extravagance,

       They flew into a hollow tree,

       Blessed with content and honesty.

      THE MORAL:

      Then leave complaints: fools only strive

       To make a great an honest hive.

       T' enjoy the world's conveniences,

       Be famed in war, yet live

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